


Eggs and Toast

by Mertens



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I Blame Andrew Lloyd Webber, Late Night Conversations, Nightmares, Post LND, References to Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertens/pseuds/Mertens
Summary: Raoul, Erik, and Gustave try to find their way through the aftermath of losing Christine.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	Eggs and Toast

One week. 

It had been one week since she was buried, and the shock was still too new, too fresh. They all told him it would get better with time, and he wanted to believe that, but- 

How could anything ever be good again, without her? 

He stared out at the stars that peeked through the foggy mist over the ocean, not caring about the chill in the air on the open balcony. Behind him, he could hear Raoul pacing in the room, the clink of ice in a highball glass. They were both pretending the other didn’t exist, both lingering in this room that she had stayed in oh so briefly yet still, still the ghost of her lingered here, and they both wanted to be near that fleeting presence just a little longer. 

There was a scream from inside the room, and Erik flinched and turned. 

Raoul got there first, being closer. Erik came in a close second, but still a second too late. 

Gustave, crying, terrified, reached for Raoul, who pulled him into his arms. Erik watched from the door as the child - his child - cried on Raoul’s shoulder. It seemed to come so easy to Raoul, comforting him. Would he ever be able to be that for Gustave? This child was his own flesh and blood, and yet still Erik felt he didn’t have any idea how to act around him. How could he give him what a boy needs from his father, considering his own upbringing? 

“It’s alright, Gustave, it’s alright,” Raoul shushed him, patting his back. 

He hadn’t discussed it with Raoul, yet. Secretly he wanted him to stay, just a little longer, for Gustave’s sake. Did he want to stay? With his not-son? With Erik? He was afraid, almost, to bring it up. He didn’t want to influence him either way. How easily he had been willing to gamble away his wife and child, but now- 

Things had changed. 

Regardless, Erik would still pay off the man’s debts. She would have wanted it that way. 

Gustave squeezed his hands into the fabric of Raoul’s shirt. His pulse was pounding in his ears, his throat hoarse from screaming. Every night, every night it has been the same, waking from one horrible nightmare and into another. His mother was gone, and that was scarier than anything his mind saw fit to terrify him with at night. 

He sniffled hard. His father- no, _Raoul_ , smelled of bourbon as he so often had in the past, that stench that would cause his mother to press her lips together and look away each and every time he came home smelling of it. How many times had he heard them arguing, fighting, after they thought he was asleep? Because of that smell. Because of the things he said to her. 

“Why did she have to go?” Gustave sobbed. 

After he said it out loud, acknowledged it, the sorrow crashed over him like a wave. It was real. It was really, really real. 

It was horrible. 

Lost in the devastation, he didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud. 

“Why couldn’t it have been you? It should have been you.”

Raoul’s breath caught in his throat, tears filling his eyes. He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

“I know, Gustave, I know,” he said, his voice thick. 

Erik wanted to smirk. It _should_ have been the vicomte. He deserved it, after everything he’d done. Even the child could recognize that. 

“I’d trade both of you for her if I could,” he cried. 

Erik looked away, shamefaced. 

He deserved it, too, he supposed. 

At last Gustave began to calm and laid back down. Tears were still rolling down his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he told Raoul quietly. “I didn’t mean it.”

They all knew otherwise. 

“It’s okay,” Raoul smiled sadly. “Get some sleep, okay?”

Gustave nodded. 

Raoul stood and left the room. Erik stayed in the doorway, watching his son. He felt he needed to do something, say something, but he didn’t know what. Gustave closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He didn’t spare a glance towards Erik, and Erik felt awkward about that. As the boy’s breathing began to even out, Erik turned and left. 

Raoul was out on the balcony, and didn’t notice Erik slipping into the main bedroom. 

He sloshed the drink around in his glass, the moonlit reflections glinting off the crystal and ice made blurry by the tears in his eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever get over hearing his son say those words to him. Not his son, yet still his son - ten long years he’d suspected, but even knowing the truth now, he still thought of him as his son. He choked on a sob and threw the glass out towards the sea. 

The worst part was, he couldn’t even find it in him to disagree with the boy’s sentiment. 

He turned and wandered back in, heading towards his - _their_ \- bedroom. He hadn’t slept in that bed again, not since the night they’d last shared it together. He stopped short after entering the room, surprised to find Erik laying in his place. 

“What are you doing?” he said flatly. 

Erik spared him an annoyed glance but didn’t answer. Christine’s nightdress was still laid out on the bed, where she’d carelessly strewn it while getting dressed. No one had bothered to move it, because to do so felt like admitting that she wasn’t coming back. Erik traced a finger down the lace sleeve of it. It still smelled like her. 

“This is my room and my bed,” Raoul said, a hint of anger flaring through the pain. 

“This is my hotel in my theme park and I own everything here,” Erik countered with no real malice. 

Raoul huffed. This man had stolen his bride, his wife, his son - everything in his life that had held any meaning - would he now steal his very bed and memory of his departed wife? 

Undeterred, he stalked over to the bed and lay down on the opposite side of the nightdress. A flicker of surprise flashed over Erik’s face, but he said nothing. Raoul faced the ceiling, unable to acknowledge the man next to him, but reached out to hold the end of the other sleeve of the nightdress. 

Laying there, with the last scrap of her between them, his anger gave way to a deep sorrow. He hated this man across from him, but Christine had loved him. She wouldn’t want them to fight. She lived on in Erik’s memories, too, memories of her that no one else had, not even him. 

“I would have told her, you know,” Erik murmured. “About the bet. The wager.”

They seemed like the right words to say, even though he wasn’t entirely certain they were the truth. Would Christine have still sung if she’d known what was at stake? Would she have wanted to stay with Raoul, even still? Meg had stolen Gustave because of him, and had that sorry of chain events not happened, Christine would never have gotten shot and Raoul wouldn’t have been absent in her final moments. He cherished that last kiss, would cherish it forever, but he was keenly aware that he had stolen her last chance of ever seeing her husband again. 

Raoul shook his head a little, frowning. 

“No,” he said, his voice thick with tears. “She picked you.”

“She didn’t know.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean before, back then. Under the opera house. She chose you.”

“She chose you, Vicomte.”

“She asked to go back,” he said quietly. “When we were fleeing the mob - she wanted to go get you, to make sure you were safe. I talked her out of it.”

They were both quiet a long moment. 

“I guess she found you anyway,” he added. 

Erik was quiet, his mind reeling. Christine had wanted him. She had chosen him over and over, and both of the men in her life thought they knew better than her, over and over. 

Regret and realization came far too late. 

“Was she happy?” Erik whispered hoarsely. “With you? With her life?”

Raoul’s brow knit. 

“I think so. Maybe not always... And not towards the end, but... I’d like to she was happy. Sometimes, at least.”

Erik made a soft noise. He ached to think that all he had sacrificed in the hopes of giving her a happy life had been for naught. But could she have truly been any happier with him? He didn’t think so. He had just as many problems as the vicomte, if not more. She hadn’t been happy with Raoul, and she wouldn’t have been happy with Erik. Or rather, she had been marginally happy with Raoul, and would have been marginally happy with Erik. It seemed no matter which way she would have chosen, she would have ended up poorly. At least it could have been her choice, though. 

“You took the music from her,” he accused, clinging to the one thing he could have given her that Raoul couldn’t, but there was no real bite in his words. 

Raoul turned to look at him, surprised. 

“No,” he said, frowning. “I didn’t. She sang every day, for a long time. She sang to Gustave. She sang in the garden. She sang while we cooked together. She _was_ happy sometimes, you know.”

“Oh,” he breathed, tears beginning to form in his eyes. He was happy that she had sung, but somehow that made him feel even sadder. 

“She used to talk about you, you know,” Raoul said at last, studying the broken man across from him. 

A flicker of surprise crossed Erik’s eyes. 

“She’d talk about you a lot, for a while,” Raoul hesitated. “I didn’t like it, because it meant she was still thinking of you, and sometimes I didn’t take that all too well, but- she really did like you.”

Erik sniffled. 

“I’ve always been in your shadow, it seems,” Raoul added softly. 

“She spent ten years with you, Vicomte. She loved you. I had less than a year with her.”

“She did love me,” Raoul agreed, closing his eyes. “But she loved you too.”

They were both silent a long time, only the ticking of the clock on the wall to fill the emptiness. 

“Are you going to take the boy with you?” Erik finally asked, daring to approach the subject they’d both been avoiding. 

“Take him where?” Raoul scoffed. 

“Away,” Erik said simply, averting his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t even know where we’d go.”

“You can stay here, if you want.”

Raoul shook his head. 

“I can’t stay here forever, Mr. Y,” he said, but offered no alternatives. 

“You could leave the boy when you go,” Erik suggested, and Raoul laughed darkly. 

“To ne raised by you? You think you can raise a child?”

Erik glowered at him. 

“At least he _is_ my child,” he shot back. 

Raoul frowned and looked away, recalling Gustave’s most recent words to him. 

“He’s more trouble than you might think,” he said softly. “He’s a very picky eater, for one.”

“Oh? Christine was a picky eater, too.”

“The pickiest,” Raoul chuckled. 

“Didn’t she ever grow out of it?”

“No. She only got pickier.”

Erik smiled a little. 

“Did she still used to complain about egg whites?”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t believe! _’You can’t scramble the eggs, Raoul, I can still taste the whites’_ ,” he teased in a falsetto. “And yet somehow she still loved-“

They both said the word at the same time-

“Meringues.”

They both laughed a little at how well they knew her. 

“What else didn’t she like?”

“Toast,” Raoul told him. “She couldn’t have it very toasted at all, or else she wouldn’t even eat it. That one came on gradually.”

“No,” Erik said. “She always hated toast. Heaven forbid it be anything harder than warm bread.”

“She would eat the toast I made for her during the first few years of our marriage,” Raoul said, puzzled. 

“She must have really loved you, then.”

“Oh.”

Neither one mentioned whether or not Raoul would be leaving, or when, or if he’d take Gustave with him. A decision would have to be made eventually, they both knew this, but in this strange space where time seemed to hold no meaning, a decision didn’t seem particularly urgent. 

The next morning, Gustave woke up and had a single moment of peace before he remembered what had happened. Sadness came over him in waves. 

Raoul stuck his head in through the doorway. 

“You ready for breakfast?” he asked awkwardly. 

Gustave shrugged his shoulders, but sat up anyway. He wasn’t hungry, but he supposed he should eat. 

When he came out to the sitting area, he found Raoul and Erik already there, and a large tray with plates of food on it. He sat down in the chair that was placed between the two chairs that both of his fathers sat in. 

He was prepared to choke down a few bites of whatever was on the plate so that no one would pester him about eating, but as Erik placed a plate in front of him, his eyes widened in surprise. 

Two egg yolks, the whites removed, sitting on top of two slices of the palest toast. 

“This is Mother’s favorite breakfast,” Gustave said, blinking. 

“It is,” Raoul agreed. 

“Someone told me it was your favorite breakfast, too, little vicomte,” Erik said. 

“Yeah.”

A ghost of a fleeting smile passed across Gustave’s face, the first that had been there since the incident on the dock. Raoul and Erik exchanged a glance. It wasn’t much, but it was progress. 

“Can I ride on the carousel today, Father?” he asked, looking at his plate as he slowly cut the toast with his fork and knife. 

“Of course-“

“If you want-“

Raoul and Erik both answered at the same time, both stopped short when they realized. They stared at each other. Gustave kept his eyes on the plate, not indicating who he was speaking to. 

“Of course you can,” Erik finally said. 

Raoul glanced away. 

“Will you go with me? Both of you?” Gustave looked between them both. 

Raoul let out a sigh of relief. 

“I’d love to go with you,” he smiled at his boy. 

“If you wish me to accompany you,” Erik agreed. 

“Okay,” Gustave nodded. 

For the first time in a over a week, he finished all of his breakfast.


End file.
